Finding The Harpstone, Steeple

I went searching for The Harpstone this February of rain and gales - the river meadows near our house were flooded - grey icy water swept over the lane - Will, our Postman, was unable to drive his van through the flood water - we had a small leak in the roof over the new room - a burly roofer, together with his nimble lad, fixed it one afternoon - the roofer said he was looking forward to get off the tools - then the boy would  go up the ladder -

I made tea for the two of them - the roofer had three sugars in his mug - the boy drank his tea in the van - the roofer leaned forward, resting his elbows upon the table in the conservatory - he's not my son, but he may  as well be he said -

Whilst it rained and rained, I spent many happy hours looking at Julian Cope's Modern Antiquarian - I made log fires, and listened to Marianne Faithfull growling softly Broken English - 

I decided to seek out The Harpstone - it is a menhir - erected thousands of years ago - there were pictures of it, together with directions of how to find it -

So, when it at last stopped raining, I drove towards Kimmeridge - I parked the red Peugeot in a small disused quarry - a sinewy woman emerged from a camper van parked there -

I narrowed my eyes over the map - climbed over precarious stiles - slithered down sodden slopes - my boots and trousers were soon plastered with mud - I could see a gracious house, built of grey stone, beyond a tangled copse of leafless trees -

I kept close to the sides of a large field, with three trees in its centre - the long wet grass rippled beneath my feet - I saw a hare - I saw its long delicate ears - then it vanished - I looked away for a second, and it had gone -

Then - I glimpsed The Harpstone - it was almost hidden - a thick thorn hedge grew all around it - a new barbed wire fence ran in front of it -

I skulked down the field, climbed over a gate, and wormed my way inside the thorn hedge - I was able to creep along a stream bed - my coat was torn by the thorns -

I stood next to the menhir - thick green moss covered large parts of its surface - deep grooves ran through it - there were circular depressions worn by time or man - bright stains of lichens marked it - I stared at the stone for a long time - I could not bring myself to touch it -